


Pluperfect

by intentioncraft



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Car Sex, M/M, Young Dean/Older Dean, selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1319392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intentioncraft/pseuds/intentioncraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean knows there’s got to be one hell of a story here, he just doesn’t want to find out what it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pluperfect

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to [tumblr](http://thighholstered.tumblr.com/post/71219095367/pre-series-dean-s9-dean-for-deancest-december) for Deancest December.

The first thing he says after they both spill into the car, lift their shirts over their heads, and kick off their boots is how good Baby looks. It’s almost disorienting, really, the difference that ten years has made to the upholstery of the Impala. Everything feels harder and crisper, and when he looks down in the footwells there’s not a trace of dirt or gravel or even one of those plastic salad containers that Sam tends to leave under the seats until the car has to be fumigated to remove the stench of rotting lettuce.

But of course there’s none of that. This Dean doesn’t have passengers, prophets and angels and sometimes demons, to muck up the backseat and he doesn’t have Sam to make a mess of the front. He doesn’t have Sam, period, and half the time he doesn’t even have Dad. He doesn’t have anything but this car, and it shows.

That forces him to turn his attention back to the half naked young man whose fingers are expertly finding all of the places on Dean’s body that send hot spikes of arousal right to his dick. He knows where to touch, where to caress, even though he doesn’t quite believe that Dean is who he says he is.

Dean told him he was from the future, but a quick comparison of scars and the younger man clearly thinks Dean is from another world entirely. He’s an unfamiliar mural of stories, not just a more prolific collection but a different collection entirely. He could tell him, tell him all about hell and torture and angels and their goddamn magic eraser fingers, for all the good that’d do, but Dean — twenty-five and still oozing with idealism that a futuristic place called better still exists — is writhing in Dean’s lap like a cat in heat and breathing damp against Dean’s neck, reckless and wanting and bursting with spontaneity and joy.

So, the younger Dean knows there’s got to be one hell of a story here, he just doesn’t want to find out what it is.

And Dean isn’t sure if he should tell him, so he Dean drags his nose up the younger man’s jaw, finds his mouth and sucks on his plump bottom lip, tongue licking along the soft, slick skin. A weak, pleased sound blooms between them; a calloused hand squeezes his bicep and then drops between them to fumble with their buckles and zippers and buttons of their jeans.

Dean takes his hand and whispers something stupid that might be baby, let me, and he unzips the other Dean’s pants and pulls him out, cradles his dick and wraps his fingers around the shaft. He ducks his head into the crook of his younger self’s neck, kisses his collarbone, as he massages the other Dean’s cock to blood-hot hardness, his own dick straining against his still-closed zipper.

Dean arches his back and leans away to look at him. He’s beautiful. On some level, Dean realizes that that’s really fucking vain of him, but he can’t help that he was so goddamn pretty when he was younger. He’s leaner and more defined, like a sculpture, solid chest and nipples standing erect and eager to be pinched, played with, sucked and bitten until their red and sore. His ridiculous fucking eyelashes fan over pale, freckled cheeks, fluttering whenever Dean rubs him thumb over the head of his dick like he’s in freaking porno. And those lips — those goddamn pillowy lips rubied and shiny from kissing, from being bitten and dragged over stubble — that fall open in an obscenely plump, welcoming shape that practically begs please fuck my mouth.

But of course, Dean has that same begging mouth, too.

“Hey,” he croaks, encouraging Dean with his hands to get off his lap so Dean can lay down on the bench, pulling the younger man onto him so he’s pretty much straddling his neck. The other Dean seems to feel where this is going, and leans forward against the close door so his cock bumps against Dean’s neck and then, with the help of Dean’s guiding hand, into his mouth.

He hears a surprised noise above him, sweet and pleased, as Dean sucks on the head of his cock experimentally and rubs his lips all over the plush crown, tasting the wet slit with his tongue, just delicately enough to make Dean’s knees tense and his hips shift to thrust himself into Dean's mouth, around which Dean seals his lips and makes a warm vacuum tight enough to elicit a deep groan from Dean. Once he’s sure he’s not going to choke, he allows his fingers to slide over Dean’s thighs and around his hips to cup his ass, pushing and rocking to encourage Dean to fuck his mouth properly.

Around the thick length stuffing his mouth full, Dean growls low and tremulously, sending a vibration of Dean’s shaft that makes every muscle in the younger man’s body shudder, his knees tightening with a leathery squeak around Dean’s shoulders. He pulls him in deep, far past his own comfort and then urges his gag reflex to co-operate as he swallows down his younger self’s cock, sucking in breaths through his nose while Dean above him greedily reaches his hand behind his other self’s head to lift it off the bench to bury his nose in the hair at his crotch.

“Oh, God,” Dean hears, far away, after he’s released and his head hits the seat with a thump. Dean’s dick pops out of his mouth and slides down his chin, leaving a wet trail of spit and precome. He wheezes, his throat and nose burning, but he can taste himself on his tongue, earthy and salty, and the quick, wet panting above him sinks into his skin and makes him burn with heady pleasure.

“Where did you learn to do that so fucking good?” Dean manages through the dizziness of his arousal, “Didn't even choke--Fuck, you gotta teach me.”

Dean smirks, licks his lips, “Maybe some other time. Here, sit back,” he demands. Dean does as he’s told on wobbly legs that don’t want to obey as he knees Dean in the side and accidentally kicks him in the chin, apologizing sheepishly as he finally sits back against the door, hair sticking to the fog building up on the window.

He spreads his legs wide for Dean, filthy and inviting, one propped and bent against the back of the seat, and the other sprawled in the footwell. His cock gleams in the dim moonlight filtering through the back window, wet with Dean’s saliva and red from need, just like his lips. He kneads his thigh with his hand and luxuriantly closes his eyes, chest lifting and falling in soft, content breaths.

“Holy fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he can’t stop himself from just saying it already, voice cracking just like a love song. This Dean is truly magnificent. When he looks in the mirror now, he sees a tired worn down man in his mid-thirties, the idealism flayed from his skin over nine years leaving him raw and violently jumpy. It makes him dim and hard and brittle, while the young man spreading himself out before him is soft and warm and vibrant, full and lush and supple. He might not realize it, either, because Dean didn’t realize it at the time himself, but it’s his soul that teems with hope, hope that his life might still get better, that he’ll still be able to repair the damage if only he works hard enough, if only he sacrifices enough.

Dean’s heart lurches; he can’t let him go without a word of warning, without a reassurance or a pep-talk, but he also can’t crush this young man’s promise to himself that he’ll be able to direct his own fate.

So he gets on his belly and curls his arms around his younger self’s back to pull him closer, and wraps his lips over the leaking head of Dean’s cock once again, relishing the tensing muscles of Dean’s lower back, the way his left leg lifts out of the footwell to nudge Dean’s flank, his toes flexing against Dean’s skin. He can take his time at this angle, so he licks and sucks his way slowly down Dean’s dick, tracing the veins and wrinkles with the pointed tip of his tongue and then rubbing it flat up the shaft again until Dean is shivering in his arms, teetering on the edge of coming but enjoying the intensity so much that he forces himself to last a little longer.

Dean pulls off, “Hey, this ain’t a spectator sport, kid. Do something with your hands,” his younger self stares at him through glazed eyes, so Dean adds, “Anything, just touch me. I don’t care where,” and then ducks back down to suck on Dean’s balls.

Dean gasps, and his fingers go reflexively to Dean’s hair, sweaty and shaky as he cards through the short strands, a tingling pleasure crawling down Dean’s neck and spine that adds to the tight heat in his gut.

Dean’s fingers continue to brush through Dean’s hair even as Dean swallows him down again, and the younger man throws his head back against the window, through the damp fog clinging to the glass, and whimpers at the hot clamp of Dean’s throat. He draws circles around his temples, scratches his scalp in time with the tiny upthrust of his hips.

“Fuck, keep going. You’re amazing — keep — keep going,” he grits out, raw and perfect, “Jesus Christ, fuck.”

Dean’s chest constricts for a moment under the praise, and he wishes abstractly that he didn’t feel the pre-come pooling on his tongue and dripping down his chin and that the stuttering of Dean’s muscles didn’t signal his orgasm, but he can make this good, and he does by wrapping one hand around the base of Dean’s cock, giving him a few wet thrusts, and then caves in the walls of his mouth so hard his younger self bucks up and positively explodes in his mouth.

He holds him through it, sucks his orgasm down even as it trickles down his chin and makes a mess of the impeccable upholstery. The younger man moans long and wavering, fingers limp in his double’s hair as his release knocks the energy out of him in seconds.

When he finally stops pulsing, Dean pulls off, give the tip of Dean’s cock one final kiss, and then crawls up Dean’s body to lick the slack opening of his lips, trading his come between them. The younger Dean’s eyes are shut, so Dean kisses each eyelid, too, just because he can. He leaves them sticky and shiny with spit and come, and then pecks him on the lips once more.

“Fuckin’ sap,” Dean slurs dreamily and slaps Dean, gentle and uncoordinated, in the cheek before finding his jaw and dragging him in for another greedy kiss. This time, he makes sure to lick all around Dean’s mouth for any traces of his own spunk.

“Sometimes,” Dean grins back. He’s still hard himself, but it’s like his younger self’s post-orgasmic exhaustion is creeping up on him almost ten years down the road. He could fall asleep right here with his arms full of warm, pliant body double.

“You gonna let me take care of that,” Dean grumbles, kneeing Dean’s erection softly but pointedly.

“Nah, I’m good,” he wedges his face in between Dean’s shoulder and the seat.

“You staying?”

Dean turns his head to suck on Dean’s neck hard enough to leave a welt, “Got anywhere else to be?”

“No.”

“Good. Because I know that you like cuddling. And I know you don’t get to be the little spoon as much as you want,” Dean says, while the other Dean laughs through a groan of humiliation, but allows himself to be manhandled in the seat so he’s tucked into Dean’s body, sheltered by the older man. They don’t speak again, and they’re both asleep in five minutes.

-

Dean wakes up some time later, a humid, chilled sweat clinging to his skin countered only by the hot, sticky body turned around and hugging his front like a goddamn limpet. Turns out, being the little spoon only works if both parties are okay with not facing each other. So, instead, they hug, cramped and tangled in the backseat in such a way that Dean’s not sure if they’ll ever be able to work out the kinks.

The younger Dean is out like a light, breathing heavily into the crook of Dean’s neck with his arms wrapped limply around his middle, kept on the bench only by the older Dean’s arm pulled strong around his torso to keep him from falling.

The fingers of Dean’s other hand crawl up his sides, following the curve of his hips and stomach, and he presses his lips to the side of Dean’s head, breathing in the smell of sweat, of sex, and of cheap shampoo, “I’m sorry,” he whispers so quietly that it’s little more than a slight displacement of air, “it’s not gonna be easy or fair, but Dad’s gonna be gone soon and Sam is gonna scare you, and you’re gonna do some stuff that scares you, too, stuff you won’t be able to take back or forget.”

Dean snuffs in his sleep and wiggles closer, Dean clutching him tighter, “Stuff that nobody understands even though they try to make it better. They can’t, really.”

“It doesn’t get better. I wish it did, God —” his voice finally betrays him, breaking off into a wrecked sob as he clutches the body of the man he used to be so close that he might start crushing ribs. He clears his throat quietly and blinks back the tears swimming in his eyes, “But you survive. And — and just promise me, that you’ll always come back to this, right now. With us.”

“Because I get you. I’ve got you. Just come back to this, and remember.”

He kisses the side of Dean’s head again, eyes open and glassy and his heart thumping a drumbeat against both of their chests. He finally lets go of the breath he’s been holding; it shivers through his lips, and the warm hand dangling slackly against the small of his back curls into a fist.


End file.
